


and here’s where mine ends

by WhyWouldIEver



Series: Flying Blind [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27836584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyWouldIEver/pseuds/WhyWouldIEver
Summary: The gang travels southwest for the winter after their mostly successful bank robbery, but John's broken arm is making him miserable. Arthur thinks he might just have the solution.A direct continuation of sorts toBanking, the Old American Art.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Flying Blind [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762330
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56





	and here’s where mine ends

**Author's Note:**

> While you don't need to read the previous stories in this verse to enjoy this one, there are some small callbacks that might not make sense if you haven't done so. They might not be the most plot-driven of stories, but they're all intended to build on each other in some way. 😁

It’s quiet at the gang’s new camp for once. They’re nestled in near the plateau edge of a mountain rim that overlooks a huge valley where forest morphs into desert off on the horizon. There’s no one else around for miles as far as Arthur could tell over the last few days, the nearest town some fifty miles back with not much to its name beyond a General Store and Saloon. 

He’s wandering off toward the outskirts of camp for the illusion of privacy and solitude, their tents and wagons still visible but the usual noise reduced to a hum. He’s got his journal in one hand and a new bottle of whiskey in the other with every intention of sitting against one of the ponderosa pines littered about for some well-earned relaxation and a little time to reflect on the last couple weeks.

As soon as he’s seated he twirls off the cap of the bottle and gulps a healthy mouthful of whiskey, relishes the spicy burn on his tongue and down his throat when he swallows, the pleasant heat that settles in his belly. He picks up his pencil, one of a new set he’d bought in that nearby town they’d stopped in for supplies, but leans back against the tree, his head tilted against rough bark with his eyes shut just listening to the wind through the pine needles and the whistling of birds in the treetops. He smiles to himself, releases a slow breath through his nose, and looks down at the empty pages of his journal waiting to be filled.

_I never been happier to be rid of a place than I am to see the last of Ridgedale and that godforsaken bank. The robbery itself went fine but we was spotted by a local drunk right on the edge of freedom. As seems our usual these days, we had to run from the law for miles with bullets flying overhead. How is it they seem to appear from outta nowhere as soon as you shoot one down? We got away eventually, but not before John lost his take, his horse, and broke his arm for good measure. I got him on my horse and we rode up into a nearby mountain to shake the law and waited until it was safe to ride again at dawn the next morning._

_We stopped at a doctor a few hours away so John could get patched up and then rode to meet up with everybody. Things since have been a bit rocky owing to John’s mood. Whether it’s pain from his arm, boredom from being cooped up now that we settled at a new camp, or something else entirely, I can’t say I got a clue. Maybe a combination of all three. But he’s been aching for a fight and I imagine things will soon come to a head if he don’t get his own straightened out._

  


* * *

  


They ride side by side into the clearing of the makeshift camp, twin fire signals burning away and the rest of the gang waiting around quietly, anxious and impatient to get a move on, not one of them wanting to stick around for any trouble should the manhunt from Ridgedale track them down.

“Y’all just sittin’ around doin’ nothing?” Arthur grins as he pulls his horse to a stop next to one of the wagons already packed and ready to go with John following suit right next to him.

“The hell you bastards been?” Bill snaps.

Arthur gestures toward John, his broken arm tied up in the sling against his chest enough of an answer, then turns to unload his take off the back of his horse. “Got this, Dutch.” He tosses the bag into the back of the closest wagon as Dutch approaches.

“Well done, son,” Dutch smiles and pats Arthur on the shoulder. He turns away and makes a show of looking at John then to his new horse without a bag of her own strapped behind the saddle, and back to John again. “Well,” Dutch murmurs and Arthur can see John’s shoulders tense where he stands, about as well-equipped to hear the _disappointment_ in Dutch’s voice resting beneath the surface as Arthur after all these years. “I’m happy you’ll live to see another day, John.”

“They shot my horse.” John shrugs his good shoulder awkwardly, letting the statement speak for itself. Arthur can see a growing defensiveness lighting up in his eyes and knows all too well the whole thing could lead to another one of the epic Dutch and John _disagreements_ , as Hosea always put it. He might be Dutch’s _golden boy_ , but the two of ‘em could argue themselves to an early grave.

“I see that.” Dutch walks over to pat a hand against the shoulder of John’s new horse, measuring her worth. “And how is she?”

“Ornery,” Arthur snorts, cutting through the simmering tension. She’d refused to walk any further late this morning until John gave her a handful of oatcakes, then refused any pace faster than a slow trot. “And it was my fault, Dutch. I told him to leave it and get on my horse. Didn’t give him much of a choice, what with the deputies nearly on us.”

John looks relieved when their eyes meet, if not still a little defensive were Arthur to take a guess. But he doesn’t have much time to waste on the thought as Dutch turns away and speaks to the gang, “Well, I don’t know about you gentlemen, but I’m ready to get out of here. Let’s ride.” They all saddle up, eager to get as much mileage between them and Ridgedale as they can with the rest of the daylight sun available to them.

  


* * *

  


It’s on the third day when Arthur really notices the darkened mood swirling around John for the first time. He’s suspiciously quiet the whole morning, eats Pearson’s shit excuse for porridge that is somehow both burned and soggy at the same time and even Arthur can barely manage to swallow down. It takes John ages to reemerge from his jaunt out for a piss afterward, the rest of the gang waiting on him by the time he gets back. 

“Alright?” Arthur asks as John climbs up into his saddle, Arthur having readied it for him in his absence. His back is stiff as a board and radiating a surly sort of discomfort and John only scowls, kicks his spurs to set off behind Bill, never even says a word. 

“Alright,” Arthur murmurs to himself and follows after one of the wagons.

He rides behind the crew for most of the day, only pulls ahead if Dutch or Hosea need a word, until they stop around midday to let their horses rest and drink some water. Arthur sits on a rock along the shoreline while everyone finds something to eat or, in Uncle’s case, something to lean against to sleep. Arthur could hear him snoring already, the lazy bastard. He watches as John wanders off as soon as he’s off of his saddle, stomping his way through the bushes lining the edge of the river and disappearing into the trees beyond.

Arthur pulls out his journal and lazily sketches his surroundings for a while, an open can of beans perched on his knee. He turns and nods his head when Hosea stakes his claim on a rock next to him to read, the two of them sitting in a companionable silence under the sun while the horses drink happily from the stream. It was something Arthur always appreciated about Hosea. How he could sit quietly, there as company but without the need to fill the silence with constant chatter. Arthur adds a rough sketch of Hosea in his drawing, his eyes hidden behind the brim of his hat while he reads from the book resting in his lap.

A rustling from the bushes behind them startles everyone and Hosea and Arthur jump to their feet with their guns at the ready. But it’s only John who marches through the brush, shirtless for some reason, and a gloomy storm swirling around him. He’s got the arms of his union suit tied around his waist and his shirt in tatters gripped tight in his hand.

Arthur holsters his gun. “The hell happened to you?” He raises his hands up in surrender when John glares, a hot fiery sun piercing through his already glowery expression. He storms over to one of the wagons and throws his destroyed shirt into the back to be cut up for wound dressings if nothing else, and struggles up into the saddle of his horse, his naked shoulders tense in a line that handily wards off any questions. The rest of ‘em take that as their cue to follow suit and they all set off again.

  


* * *

  


Arthur’s on first watch when they stop that night, nearly everybody else already tucked tight in their bedrolls and dead to the world, the only sound the crackling of burning wood and Pearson’s snoring. The air is so chilly the tops of Arthur’s ears have gone numb and he supposes they’re lucky it ain’t already snowing. He’s sitting in front of the fire trying to keep warm, his breath visible in the air even when it’s not smoke from the cigarette pursed between his lips. At any rate, he’s eager to get to a warmer climate. 

John’s still up too, sat on the top of his bedroll across the fire ever since Arthur got it started hours ago, his mood never really letting up since their brief stop by the river that afternoon. His anger is usually like a flash of lightning, quick and deadly, but gone almost as soon as it shows up. It’s Arthur who holds on to rage, lets it fester beneath the surface, holding it close like a strange kind of comfort. Even when it’s not visible, it’s always there buzzing under his skin like the electricity running along the wires sprouting up and taking over the countryside.

With that in mind, Arthur had tried to start up a conversation a couple times once he’d got settled, thought maybe John was bored from his stony silence all day, but he’d given that idea up after a couple grunts were his only response. Now John’s been sitting there shivering for a while, his jaw clenched tight to stop the helpless chattering of his teeth, still stubborn as a mule in his refusal to put on a goddamn shirt over his broken arm.

Arthur rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh at the pathetic show and tosses the end of his cigarette into the fire. He stands and wanders away to the back of the wagons where all their trunks are stored then climbs up and rummages around for a bit in the dark until he finds John’s trunk tucked away in the back. It’s seen better days, the lid no longer able to shut straight, and the top covered in coffee stains and candlewax that John never bothers to clean off. Arthur pops the lid open and digs around inside until he feels the first bit of thick wool that brushes along his fingers and yanks out one of John’s coats.

It smells a bit musty from being stored all summer, but it’ll do well enough for its designed purpose all the same. Arthur slams the trunk shut with a click of wood and jimmies it ‘til the corner sticks closed again. He hops off the back of the wagon, circling around to the fire but stops at the sight of John hunched over with his bedroll now bunched up around his waist where he sits cross-legged as close to the flames as he must feel is safe. The skin of his back is pale in the moonlight, orange shadows from the fire licking across his shoulders in a way that has Arthur suddenly aching to draw, a phantom itch for paper and pencil on the tips of his fingers that he tamps down into the back of his mind.

“Here.” John startles when Arthur speaks, the first words uttered since their previous one-sided conversation. John stares at his coat then up into Arthur’s eyes in confusion. “You shiver any harder you’ll crack a tooth.”

John sneers but takes the coat into his hand. He struggles for a bit trying to get the shoulder thrown over his bad side but unable to get the angle right for it to stay put.

Arthur watches it slip off and down to the ground three times before he huffs a small laugh. “You’re a real sorry sight, Marston,” he mutters with a shake of his head. “Give it here.” He grabs for the coat and drops it around both of John’s shoulders and then wanders back to reclaim his seat on the other side of the fire.

They sit there in silence after that, Arthur trying his best not to nod off while John stares sightlessly into the fire like he’s under a spell, the only sign he’s even alive the steady rise and fall of his chest and the fog released every time he exhales.

“My arm hurts,” he mutters. He tucks his fingers into the long sleeve of his coat and sighs. “And I’m fuckin’ cold.”

Arthur snorts. “I know.” He tosses a log onto the fire so the flame burns higher.

  


* * *

  


It’s Arthur’s turn to drive one of the wagons a few days later, never his particularly favorite job. He likes the freedom to ride on or chase after something over the need to stick strictly to paths lest the wagon get stuck or break an axle. He’s lost in thought, bored at the steady pace, and his ass going numb from the vibration of the wheels moving over rocks and dirt.

A piercing cry rips through the air and startles him into yanking back on the reins, pulling the wagon to a harsh stop. He watches with alarm as John’s horse rears back, John’s legs gripping hard around her sides as he tries to stay seated in the saddle.

“Whoa!” John cries. “Easy, girl.” But with his free arm holding firm on the reins he has no arm to soothe her by touch. She rears back again, hard and fast enough to buck John clear off the saddle where he lands with a gasping thud hard on his back, his head knocking into the ground beneath him while his horse runs off into the nearby thicket.

Arthur jumps off the seat and jogs over to John where he’s lying slumped on the ground, a pained groan loud in the air when he sits up.

“Marston.” Arthur crouches down next to him to see his face. ”You hurt?” 

John brushes him off with a wave of his hand and a noncommittal grunt. 

“Alright then,” Arthur mutters, rising to his feet. ”I’ll go get your horse.”

He jogs in the direction she’d run off and finally comes upon her eating some long-dead grass in a nearby meadow. He walks around slowly until he’s visible in her eye-line so she doesn’t spook, then stops when she stands tall and eyes him up warily as he approaches. She shifts nervously when he closes the distance and reaches his hand out to pet her. “Hey, now,” he mumbles gently. “Shh, you’re alright, girl.” 

She snorts with a shake of her head, her feet stomping erratically until she calms down with more soothing words and light touches along her skin. 

Arthur holds out a carrot from his satchel. “You can’t go buckin’ people off like that.” He pets his hand in a soothing stroke along her neck while she eats the carrot and the next two after that as well, runs his hand along her jaw, then takes a hold of the leather of the reins hanging loose around her neck. “Let’s get you back now, huh?” he says, still keeping his voice calm to coax her along.

She follows behind him willingly and the two of them walk back through the thicket toward the gang. John’s standing there glowering and Arthur tilts his head in close to murmur in her ear as they approach him. “There’s John. Now don’t go buckin’ him off again, huh? He’s already grumpy enough as it is. But you’re almost as ornery as he is right now, ain’t ya?” He grins when his eyes connect with John’s at that last sentence, but it slips off his face when John stomps closer and tears the reins from his hand.

“Get your own horse and leave what’s mine well enough alone,” he spits. 

Arthur’s stunned silent by the vitriol. He hasn’t found himself on John’s bad side in a while, all things considered, but the shock of it is momentary and replaced by a flash of anger because he ain’t done _nothin’_ but help John lately. Maybe his horse would take to him easier if he wasn’t acting like such a goddamn asshole. He’s angry because of his arm, angry because she’s taken to Arthur in a way she hasn’t yet done to John. Nevermind that she’d like him fine if he’d stop acting a fool. Arthur opens his mouth, ready to let John hear a thing or two about it.

“You’ve got yourself a warrior queen there, John,” Hosea interjects, his voice placating. “Leading a revolt against man, your very own Boadicea bows before no one.” He walks over and pats her just as Arthur had done, a warm smile on his face meant to calm them both down and cause a distraction. “Arthur?” Hosea turns toward him. “Can you come with me a minute? I’m worried one of the wheels is loose on your wagon.”

Arthur tips a knowing glance at him, fully aware there’s no issue with the wagon and this is nothing more than a handy excuse to put a stop to a brewing argument, one that Hosea’s had to use a time or two over the years. He shoots a quick glare at John where he stands before him defiantly like he was almost aching for the scuffle, the answering fire right there to see in his eyes. Arthur turns away and follows behind Hosea toward the wagon.

After that, the two of ‘em aren’t really on speaking terms beyond necessary. Arthur’s not really in the mood to have his head bitten off and the whole gang takes to giving John a wide berth with the dour mood he’s in. They push on from sunup to sundown, only stopping briefly to let the horses rest for food and water. It takes a few more days of riding to reach their final destination for the winter, the crisp white snow on far off mountaintops finally giving way for red rock and pine trees.

  


* * *

  


Arthur’s snapped back to the present by a commotion from camp. He glances up and sees John toss his bowl of stew on the ground at Bill’s feet, the words the two of them throw back and forth at each other too low to make out from this far away, but clearly nasty and headed toward thrown punches if one of ‘em doesn’t come to his senses and back off.

Bill, the fool, shoves John back hard and that’s all the incentive John needs, what with the way he’s been angling for a fight for weeks now. He charges at Bill, his broken arm still stuck in its sling not even a thought in his empty head. With his good arm, he reaches out and takes a firm hold of the front of Bill’s shirt and his head snaps forward, colliding with a sharp crack right into Bill’s face. 

There’s gushing blood almost immediately after impact. John stands there stock still, his feet braced hard in the dirt beneath him for the oncoming brawl, his chest heaving like he’s run a mile. Bill seems in shock for a moment, his hand rises up to his nose to prod at it and comes away covered in a smear of blood.

But the fight ends before it begins. “Mr. Marston!” Miss Grimshaw’s voice cries out loud in outrage as she marches over, each syllable clipped like she’s reprimanding a child. Which, Arthur figures, she probably thinks ain’t far from the truth. “What is the matter with you?” 

John stands there staring her down like he’s ready to lash out like a snake, his teeth poised to sink deep into skin and leave two pinpoints of poisoned venom in their wake. But he turns away instead, a whirling hurricane as he storms off into the trees.

Arthur watches him until he disappears then turns his attention back to Miss Grimshaw while she helps a whining, grumbling, and bloodied Bill over to the washbasin to clean up his new injury. In any case, Arthur thinks Bill walked right into that one. He picks up his pencil again and scrawls on the bottom of the page. 

_Maybe I oughta lend John a hand when it comes to easing some tension._

He shuts his journal with a snap and takes another long drink of whiskey, stretching his legs out in front of himself to relax now that the moment has passed.

  


* * *

  


Arthur stays up late that night waiting for Miss Grimshaw to hurry off to bed, the last person awake around the fire and taking her time with it. He sits on his cot, his back hunched over his journal, and draws random doodles by the light of the lantern.

He tries to be discreet about it when he periodically peers over the top edge of his journal every once in a while, impatient while Miss Grimshaw sits mending until _finally_ she stands and tends to the fire one last time and wanders her way to her tent to sleep. Not wanting to call attention to himself, Arthur waits a good ten minutes longer just to be sure she’s asleep and then makes his move. He leans over to rustle around in his satchel at the foot of his bed, digging around the oddities he’s picked up and hasn’t taken the time to sort through yet. It takes a bit but he finally latches on to what he’s looking for and he pulls out the little strip of fabric he stuffed away in a flurry at the General Store while John had been busy at the doctor getting his arm sorted.

He shoves it into his pocket as he rises and walks over to John’s tent, careful to keep his tread light on the pine needles that litter the ground beneath his feet. John’s got the buttons done up on his tent like he wants to ward off anyone who might be stupid enough to bother him in the mood he’s in, but Arthur pays them no mind. He slips enough buttons through to duck underneath and into the quiet near-dark of the dying light of the candle set on a crate in the corner. He turns around to redo the buttons just in case, given what he’s aiming for here. 

Then he stands there for a few moments, hovering over John asleep on his cot, his broken arm tied in the sling against his chest and the other resting underneath his head. Even in sleep he still looks pissed as anything, his jaw clenched tight like he’s grinding his teeth, all too ready to lash out at the next sorry bastard to get on his bad side. Arthur sucks in a breath through his nose and reaches down, shakes John’s shoulder gently.

John’s eyes pop open, always on the alert given the life they live, and he glares at Arthur where he towers above him as soon as he recognizes him, angry at having his sleep disturbed. “ _What_ are you doing here?” John scowls, his voice too loud in the dead quiet of night.

“Shhh,” Arthur hastens. He drops to a knee beside the bed and places his palm against John’s mouth to keep him from saying another word, lest he foolishly wakes the entire camp with an angry outburst. “You been a real piece of work the last couple weeks,” Arthur mutters. He feels a puff of air against the side of his hand when John huffs, irritated. “I know you hate bein’ cooped up with nothin’ to do. I get that, but it ain’t anyone’s fault you got a broken arm.”

At the wet, slippery slide of John’s tongue against his skin, he rips his hand away, hastily wipes it off on the rough fabric of John’s blanket. “Real cute, Marston,” he sneers. “And here I was, come to do you a favor.” He sets his now-dry hand down at the very top of John’s thigh, the intent behind his words loud and clear to John if his widening eyes are any sort of indication. 

Arthur smirks and lifts his hand away. “But if you’re gonna be like that, I guess I might as well be on my way.” He shifts onto his feet like he actually intends on standing and leaving, but stops with a grin as soon as John starts yammering on.

“No, no, no.” John reaches out with his free hand to grab Arthur’s wrist and halt his feigned retreat. “I’m sorry, just, I can’t fuckin’—” he stutters, but cuts himself off before he finishes his sentence.

“Can’t fuckin’ what?”

John scowls again, but wastes no time like he’s past the point of embarrassment and blurts out, “I haven’t come in ages! I can’t get it right with my left hand, Arthur. I’m goin’ crazy.”

“Is that what all this’s been about?” Arthur asks, incredulous. “Oh, you poor bastard.” Arthur laughs when John drops his wrist, pissed at the mocking tone in his voice. 

“Just get the hell out if you’re gonna be an asshole, Morgan,” John sighs and turns his head to face the wall of his tent.

“I’m not saying I ain’t gonna help you, calm down.” He places his palm down on the center of John’s exposed chest, mindful to avoid his arm in its sling. He quirks an eyebrow when John turns his head back toward him, his face cast in shadows from the candle highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones and looking mighty pretty, not that Arthur would ever say as much to him. “You up for it?”

John rolls his eyes and doesn’t even bother with a response to something they both already know the answer to. Arthur grins and slides his hand down the length of John’s torso, makes quick work of the arms of John’s union suit still tied together over his waist, and places his hand right down on top of John’s cock where it’s trapped beneath the fabric.

“Oh,” Arthur says, suddenly remembering. He yanks his hand away to dig into his pocket and pulls the tie out, then throws it down onto John’s bare chest. “I got you somethin’.”

He watches as John grabs for it and lifts it in the air, the tip whispering against his chest, and huffs a quiet chuckle of disbelief in his throat. 

“Told you I would,” Arthur says just for something to fill the silence, weirdly nervous over such a small, silly gesture.

John’s eyes flick from the tie back to Arthur and he wordlessly hands it over when Arthur holds out his hand. 

He stares down into John’s eyes while he wraps the length of the tie around and around his palm, the newness of the fabric soft like silk against his rough gun calluses. He sets his hand to John’s warm chest and smoothes it down in a path from sternum to hip so John can get a taste for the feel of it against his skin. 

John inhales a shaky breath. “Jesus, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckles. “And here I was, not even started much of anything yet. But look at you.” He cups John’s cock where it’s already straining against the buttons of his union suit like it’s desperate for relief, which Arthur guesses ain’t all that far from the truth, really. He grins when John’s hips jolt against him, then slips open the buttons, spreading the sides so John’s cock can spring back against his abdomen, hard and already aching if Arthur was to put a wager on it. 

He grabs a hold of it in a light touch only meant to steady and gently twines the tie around from the base to the head, holding it there without moving just to be a little mean, teasing John to the very last second. At the first sign of impatience, when he thinks John’s about to open his mouth to complain, he pulls the fabric free, nice and slow. A whisper-soft glide against the most sensitive of skin.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” John whispers.

“Yeah?” Arthur asks, a small smile _just_ tipped on his lips. He wraps the tie around again and repeats the move just to watch John squirm and bite his lip hard, the tease of it against his skin seeming like it’s already too much. He brushes the tip of the tie in a tickling, meandering path from hip up to tease against a nipple and then back down, trails it over his belly button and ghosts the tip of it along the length of John’s cock. 

John moans too loud in the quiet, already so desperate, and Arthur pauses what he’s doing, drops his hand back over John’s mouth. “Shh,” he murmurs. “Keep quiet or I’ll stop.”

John glares and yanks Arthur’s hand from his face, shoves it down to wrap around his cock, stroking his hand over Arthur’s at a fast pace like he can’t take any more even though Arthur’s still barely even done much of anything. 

“You stop and I’ll shoot you,” John snarls but is smart enough to keep his voice down.

“How?” Arthur mocks him with a small laugh but twists his hand at the head in a little maneuver that lets him rub the pad of his thumb over the slit. “Y’know,” he interjects on a sudden thought, intentionally slowing his hand to a barely-there crawl and grinning when John glares at him. “Maybe I oughta take you out for some target practice some time when your arm is better. Get you to work on your left-handed shootin’.”

“Fine,” John huffs, his eyes slamming shut and clearly barely paying attention to what Arthur is saying. “Just don’t stop.”

“Well stay quiet then and I won’t have to.” Arthur laughs again when John does nothing more than moan, albeit quietly under his breath.

Arthur lets go after a few more strokes of his hand, chuckling at the disappointed grunt John barely bites off. He stands and lifts John’s leg by the knee so he can situate himself on the bed, both of John’s legs splayed out haphazardly around Arthur’s hips. He starts floating the ends of the tie against John’s skin like he means to start the teasing all over again, brushes his thumb against the sharp jut of John’s hip bone still caught in the open spread of his union suit, and glides the tie through the wetness already steadily leaking from John’s cock. 

Arthur shifts his own hips restlessly at the sight of it, his cock pressing uncomfortably to the inside of his button-fly, and chews at the inside of his cheek in an approximation of distracting himself from the _need_ suddenly thrumming in his ears. He pulls the tie away and a line of pre-come catches to the fabric, breaks when he pulls back far enough, and sticks to the skin of John’s cockhead. Arthur moans in the back of his throat, can’t help himself when he leans down without a thought and licks across the head to lap up the mess. He yanks away when John’s breath stutters, then glares when John lets loose another too-loud moan.

“Sorry,” John mumbles, his eyes fixed on Arthur. “Fuck.” He swipes his hand down his face and through his sweaty hair fanned out in a tangle against the flat pillow beneath his head, exhales a shaky breath in the quiet of the tent.

Arthur stares back at John as he tries to calm himself down and refocus, the taste of come on his tongue a reminder of how long it’s been since he last did this. He feels an ache in a line from his chest down to his cock at the thought. A desperation to get his mouth wrapped around John, wants to feel the stretch of his jaw, the full intrusion of it to the back of his throat, wants to taste and dismantle him using nothing but his mouth in a way that he hasn’t done to anyone in a long time.

Arthur brushes his thumb against the jut of John’s hip bone again, hesitating with John’s eyes near screaming at him, _you started this, now finish it._ An unspoken mantra Arthur has grown strangely accustomed to after all this began.

He rears up onto his knees and hovers over John, keeps staring down into his eyes, and then places the little strip of fabric right over the top of them, blocking out his vision.

“What?” John asks and lifts a hand to tear it free. 

Arthur catches it, keeps a hold. “Leave it,” he murmurs. “Just focus on how it feels.”

“How what feels?”

Arthur takes his place back on the cot between the spread of John’s legs, shifting so he’ll be more comfortable. “My mouth on you.”

John tenses, every muscle in his body held tight even to Arthur’s naked eye and he’s suddenly worried he’s overstepped and John’s finally come to his senses, wants to put a stop to whatever the hell any of this is.

“Is that alright?” He taps a nervous, staccato rhythm against John’s leg.

John huffs a small burst of a laugh, raspy and quiet in the back of his throat. “Jesus Christ, Arthur,” he mumbles. He makes to run his hand down his face again but stops when he feels the tie placed over his eyes like he’d already forgotten it was there. “Yeah, it’s fuckin’ alright.”

Arthur lets out a tension relieving sigh through his nose and pats a soothing hand along John’s side. His hair tickles against his forehead when he leans forward so he shoves his fingers through to push it back. With one last glance up the long stretch of John’s body he leans down, his back hunched over, and takes the head of John’s cock into his mouth. He suckles at it for a few moments, his eyes fluttering shut at the sharp taste on his tongue. He pops free, a sound that feels too loud in his ears, and licks up the underside from deep in the thatch of hair at the base to curl around the head, pressing the flat of his tongue nice and tight against the curve of it. 

Arthur looks up at John’s stuttered breath, hums quietly at the sight of him. The way his muscles are held tight, his hand already clenched in the rough fabric of his bed like he’s so close to coming already and can only hold back for so long. Arthur curls his hand around the length of his cock, pulls back gently on the foreskin to lap right at the sensitive underside with the pointed tip of his tongue, then takes the head in his mouth, sliding down slow to fit as much as he can inside, rusty and out of practice at the skill. He pauses as far as he can go without feeling that uncomfortable urge to choke, breathes in deep through his nose, and then sucks hard back up the length with his lips pursed tight, his cheeks hollowed in a way John is bound to find unbearable in how good it feels. 

And _yeah_ , John’s groaning through clenched teeth the whole way up and Arthur smiles to himself all pleased in a way that he knows would have John rolling his eyes if he could see him. So he does the whole move again, then again and again, building a nice rhythm up and down, John so clearly desperate but trying to keep his voice down. 

While he ain’t the biggest Arthur’s ever had in his mouth, it really has been quite a long time since he last did this. A good few years if he thinks about it, which he usually tries to avoid at all costs. Back to a time when he was sunken deep in despair-fueled recklessness, chased after anything that smoothed off the rough edges of misery festering inside of himself. Whether that was a blowjob down an alley, a fuck in the dark, back corners of a saloon on the wrong side of town, or a fistfight with a drunken local. If he got real lucky, it was more than one option. But now his tongue is already gettin’ sore, his jaw aching. 

John’s hips twitch suddenly like they’re desperate to move, to push himself deeper into the soft heat of Arthur’s mouth, but he holds himself back, probably digging deep into that well of stubborn determination that seems never-ending to Arthur sometimes. 

Arthur rewards his restraint by pressing the full width of his tongue in tight to the underside of John’s cock again, licking _up up up_ and sucking the head, releasing it with another too-loud pop.

“God, what the hell?” John asks, the first time he’s spoken aloud other than the bitten off sounds of pleasure he’s trying so hard to hold back. His voice is all breathy when he speaks and he grunts when Arthur sucks the head back into his mouth, presses his tongue right beneath the crown and sucks there too then slides down until his mouth is near stuffed full again. “You’re good at this.”

Arthur chokes a little when he laughs at the almost mesmerized tone in John’s voice, has to pull off again for a moment to catch his breath, but strokes him with his hand like a consolation. “Thanks,” he says, his tone intending it as a joke, then swallows John down as far as he can take him, hoping it distracts him from saying anything else.

He’s so focused on what he’s doing, the way his lips are starting to smart at the corners, the stretch on the underside of his tongue, that he jumps a little when he feels fingers slip into his hair. He glances up toward John’s face and has to shut his eyes at the look of him, moans quietly with his mouth stuffed full.

John’s got his lip clenched tight between his teeth, his chest heaving in breaths through his nose, and covered in a sheen of sweat like his body is working double-time because he’s gotta stay quiet. The tie placed over his eyes like a blindfold was a stroke of accidental genius on Arthur’s part because he can look his fill without needing to worry about John mocking him for it. Or worse, read something there that Arthur doesn’t want him to see. 

Arthur moans and works one of his hands along John’s cock, sweeps the other along his thigh, and takes a firm hold. He chokes a little when John’s hips thrust up and push his cock too deep into his throat with no warning. 

“Shit,” John pets his hand through Arthur’s hair in apology. “‘m sorry,” he says, his voice all slurry.

Arthur pulls off for a second to catch his breath, licks his dry lips. “S’fine,” he murmurs, then opens his mouth for more. He adjusts his hips on the bed, his own cock leaking steadily with how hard he is now, can feel it throbbing in time with the pulse in his ears and all because he’s got John’s hand in his hair, his cock in his mouth, and he looks so goddamn good anytime Arthur peers up the length of his body to his face still hidden behind the makeshift blindfold.

Arthur sighs through his nose, keeps his mouth moving even with his lips going numb, eager to give John this moment of longed for reprieve that’s had him all twisted up the last couple weeks. He pulls off most of it to focus on the head, sucking and licking, tonguing his way into the leaking slit, then swallows him down again.

“Arthur,” John whispers, his hands clenching a shade tighter in Arthur’s hair. His voice trails off, the muscles in his torso tightening up, the sheen of sweat making them stand out in the waning light. His cock pulses at the base against Arthur’s lips and then he’s coming, can’t seem to help the sounds of pleasure surfacing from deep in his chest every time his cock shoots another splash of come deep into Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur sucks rhythmically the whole way through, his hand stroking the rest of John’s cock in counterpoint. He swallows as he pulls off, leans back in to lick up the last bit of clear fluid that pulses free of the slit, then sits up. He stretches his aching back and stares up the length of John’s body, still panting hard like he’s just run free from a bounty hunter hot on his tail.

John groans, somehow still with the wherewithal to keep it mostly quiet, then reaches up to pull the tie free from his eyes. He looks back at Arthur silently, the messy hair at his temples all sweaty and his cheeks tinged a real pretty red. Arthur smirks at John when nothing else comes to mind, adamantly trying to ignore the near-painful throb of his cock trapped in his jeans. “Nothing to say?” he asks and then tucks John back inside the fabric of his union suit just to have something to do. He fastens the buttons one by one and even ties up the arms back around his waist.

“When the hell did you learn _that_?”

Arthur shrugs his shoulders, rises to his knees, and refuses to answer. He sets a foot down on the ground alongside John’s cot but pauses half-way to standing when John speaks again.

“What about you?” He’s got his eyes pinned to the front of Arthur’s pants where even a blind man could probably sense he was bulging hard into the button-fly.

“Well...” He pauses for a beat. “I’m thinkin’ I’d really like to come on your face now.” He laughs at the brief flash of disgust that settles there and gone again on John’s face. “Nah, I’m just messin’ with you.” He pats John’s knee and grins as he climbs fully to his feet next to the bed. “Don’t worry about it, I got use of both my hands.” He wiggles the fingers of his right hand in the air then adjusts himself a little more comfortably in his pants. “Now you best be nice to everybody tomorrow.” He turns toward the buttoned flaps of John’s tent but stops. “And John?” He looks over his shoulder. “Next time just ask, huh?”

John rolls his eyes with an amused snort and sends him off with a wave of his free hand, a wordless acknowledgement. Arthur undoes the buttons and exits the tent into the cooler night air, refreshing after the almost suffocating heat inside, and inhales a calming breath before tip-toeing back to his own bed.

  


* * *

  


The next morning Arthur is standing at the main campfire alongside Bill with his newly-bandaged nose, the two of them waiting in silence for the coffee to finish brewing, when John steps free of his tent. 

He walks over light on his feet like he ain’t got a care in the world on such a fine morning. The birds are chirping overhead like they agree and John's staring right at Arthur as he approaches, nothing on his face giving him away, really, but Arthur still feels a sense of smug pleasure radiating off of him all the same. 

Arthur’s eyes flick down to his throat and it takes everything he’s got within himself to hold off the blush that wants to blossom across his cheeks when he sees the tie wrapped snug around John’s throat like a choker, the dark red of the fabric a stark contrast to his skin.

“Mornin’,” John smirks, his eyes pinned on Arthur like he’s very much enjoying this, the asshole.

“You feeling better today, Princess?” Bill snarls, breaking into the moment obliviously.

John’s eyes glance away from Arthur and toward Bill like he’s only just realized he was standing there in the first place. “What?” 

“I heard you cryin’ in your sleep last night,” Bill says like he’s got one up on John.

John’s eyes swing back to Arthur, another infuriating little smirk on his face that says he _knows_ Arthur can’t take his eyes off his throat, and that they’re both well aware what _cryin’_ was really going on. He reluctantly turns toward Bill again. “How’s your nose?” 

He laughs when Bill stomps off in an angry huff then leans down to pour himself a cup of coffee just as it finishes brewing.

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this story to the mad horny fellas I knew in my early 20s who, much like John here, thought they’d die if they didn’t have an orgasm at least once a day and got real grumpy about it sometimes too. 😂
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading!


End file.
